


Dragons By The Sea

by sparrowinsky



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:09:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowinsky/pseuds/sparrowinsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of most of the Seven Kingdoms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragons By The Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Voodooqueen126](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Voodooqueen126).



> Written for voodooqueen126 for the Winter 2011 ASOIAF fic exchange.
> 
> Connected to my SanSan fic "All The Songs Of Winter," in that they exist in the same fanfic-world. I like to think that Dany and Sansa correspond (with letters most probably filled with the elegantly-worded noble lady equivalent of *facepalm*).

Dawn blooms pale and pink through Daenerys’ chambers, the faint light drawing her from restless sleep. It’s the only kind of sleep she can manage these past few years. Westeros weighs heavy upon her; no easier to rule than Essos, this land, full of lords and knights and ways that are not her own. She rises, quiet as a breath, to dress for the day. The floppy ears of King’s Landing suit her tastes better than a pearl-laden tokar, but the soft linen dress still feels like donning armor. She leaves the back unlaced and sits by the window, watching the sun rise.

Breakfast is always quiet. Dany can never manage much of it: Westeros fare is heavy at the best of times, and the winter meal of thick porridge and slices of old apples often turns her stomach. Aegon is rarely there, preferring to sleep, or practice his swordwork, but Tyrion shares the meal with her on occasion. When he doesn’t, she takes it in her chambers, attended by her flaxen-haired maids. They are uneasy around her, still, even when she smiles and asks about their health, about the babes. They eye her as if she is one of her dragons, tensing, no matter how gently she touches their rounded bellies.

The Iron Throne distracts Dany from the tedium of the court; trying to pay attention to the supplicants below her and remain unscathed in the chair. Viserys had often spoken of the seat she held, but never how difficult it would be to keep her skin whole as she sat upon it. The slightest wrong shift could part a finger, or more, from her body. And yet she must remain, must listen to the lords and commoners that come before her, and solve their disputes. Most days she simply keeps very still, and thinks of the Mad King, and wishes Aegon in her place.

The midday meal is a raucous affair, the battleground for the arguments that wage constantly between her consorts. She requires her maids take the meal with her, as much as a buffer from her husbands as anything else. Not from spite, she tells herself, and tries to ignore how her stomach twists when she catches a glimpse of their heavy bellies. She tries to focus on the women instead, asking questions, practicing her Westerosi manners, coaxing smiles and stories from the girls. They might be twins, she thinks in a quiet moment, the same white-blond hair curtaining their pale eyes.

The council always wants her the moment she’s pushed her plate away, barely touched. Most days she accedes to their request, aware that they want to catch the afternoon sun. She can understand the desire; cold ill-suits southern Westerosi. Dany likes it little better than they do. Today, though, she hears Drogon in the distance. It makes the maids shudder, but silences Tyrion and Aegon as nothing else could. She rises, catching their eyes with a smile. They flee the keep with a haste unbecoming a queen and her consorts, but their dragons soar above the ocean: nothing else matters.

It’s ill-behaved of them to make the small council wait, but three hours pass before they tumble from their dragons, laughing like children. They head for their chambers; better to make her advisers wait than to come before them drenched in sweat, skirt sooty from Viserion’s playful fire. Dany follows Aegon to his rooms, tumbling into a steaming tub with him. He toys with her hair, the same silver as his own. The warmth of his body reminds her of Drogon’s burning heat, her skin flushing pink with it. Daenerys cares for Tyrion, but this is something he can never share: she and Aegon are dragons.

It’s another hour yet before they make it to the council, hair still damp. Tyrion arrived before them, as always, clad in the Lannister red she's begged him to forgo. He takes one look at their still-damp hair and smiles, a wry twist that is as much restrained laughter as it is subdued jealousy. The rest of the council pretends not to notice, looking at anything but her. All except Missandei, who says more with one small quirk of her mouth than most could with a thousand words. Dany doesn’t blush; it’s just the residual heat from her bath that flush her cheeks.

The meeting is interminable. Asha brings up expanding the fleet, as she does every day, and is shot down as always. Lord Garel, Master of Coin, tangles himself in arguments with the Mistress of Ships and Ser Barristan. How can he find gold to build an army, he says, when they can barely feed King’s Landing?Daenerys rebuffs any mention of stopping the food distribution. Aegon pushes her on it, arguing that she must conquer Westeros fully, force the kingdoms to kneel before her. Dany feels her goodwill seep away, and grasps for one comfort: at least Tyrion agrees with her. She cannot let her people starve.

Dinner is uneasy, coming hard on the heels of the lengthy council meeting. Dany finds herself disinterested in the meal, irritated with Aegon’s fury that she didn’t support him. She refuses to comfort him; it's an argument they've had too many times for her to feel guilt. She lets Tyrion draw her into conversation, instead, bantering about what they’ll name the children, a topic Aegon refuses to show interest in. Tyrion even draws her maids into the conversation, eliciting their opinions with the skill of a man long used to flirting. Dany wonders if this is how a family meal might have gone as a child, if not for the rebellion, letting herself drift on daydreams. It’s a warming thought for a cool evening.

The night is deep when Dany reaches her chambers, refusing the company of her maids. She’s not blind to the looks Aegon gave them as he grew heavy in his cups, and she has no need for their meager skills. She prefers Tyrion’s company of an evening, besides; long conversations that ease her mind and on rare occasion make her laugh. When she finally seeks her bed, Daenerys doesn’t bother with a candle or fire, making her way to her window by faint moonlight. She spies her dragons in the distance, settling to sleep atop the Dragonpit on Rhaenys's hill. She grows numb with cold, watching.

It’s well past midnight when she slips into bed, hoping for sleep before she must face the dawn.


End file.
